The Ballroom

by Anna Hope

  Fuller ignored the hand, busying himself instead with his papers. ‘I see you two gentlemen are down for the tug of war. Let’s hope the rain holds off till then, eh?’

  ‘Aye.’ Dan’s hand curled into a fist. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  As Fuller made his way down the line, Dan’s face changed. ‘That’s not a horse,’ he lobbed after him. ‘It’s an ass. The arse end of an ass.’

  The men whooped at this. John saw Fuller pause before mustering his dignity and carrying on, making his way over to a high chair facing the grass and calling out names for the egg and spoon.

  ‘Midsummer.’ Dan turned to John. ‘Did they used to light bonfires in Ireland then, chavo? Midsummer’s Eve?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘He’d make a good Guy, wouldn’t he?’ Dan jerked his shoulder after Fuller. ‘To put on top of those fires?’

  A shrill blast sounded on Fuller’s whistle and the games began, the first men picking their way out to take their places on the grass.

  John’s gaze slid back over towards the women, and with a jolt he saw her – facing him at the edge of the crowd, her pale face steady and intent. The sky was lightening a little, and she tipped up her chin to receive a shaft of sun. His heart clenched at the sight; looking at her now, her face bright, he could not believe he had ever thought her funny-looking, could not believe he had ever thought her plain. She was beautiful. She blazed with it. He wanted to go to her, to climb over this rope and walk across the grass, while these idiots were prancing about in their costumes. Desire welled within him, a wave powering him forward, and he almost moved, before it broke in his chest and raked back across his belly, and he stayed where he was, shuddering in its wake.

  ‘All right there, chavo?’ A smile creased Dan’s brown face.

  John ducked his head, rolling himself a cigarette. ‘Get to fuck, Riley,’ he said, ‘and give me a match.’

  The rain did hold off, but barely, spitting sometimes but never falling with much force. There was no wind. It was as though they were all simmering under the great grey lid of the sky, like water almost brought to the boil. The afternoon rumbled on: race after race, and all of them as tame as children’s games. He would not have minded a game of hurley, throwing the ball and running, letting his body take him where it would, but this was nothing like it; this was being pushed and prodded and corralled into lines and whistles and races and no freedom at all.

  He concentrated on her instead. Not letting her from his sight. It was not hard, as she stayed in the same place, always just across the grass, but as the afternoon stretched and sagged, he began to wonder if she was real; she seemed insubstantial somehow, in her paleness, as waves of heat rose from the earth and blurred her outline, a changing creature, made of water, not of flesh and blood. If he crossed the grass towards her, if he tried to touch her, would she slide through his fingers and be gone?

  When the races had finished and the ground was dusty and the fag end of the afternoon only wanted a heel to put it out, it was time for the tug of war. Dan, who had been dozing on the patchy grass, launched himself up as soon as it was called, the general again now, beckoning the men he had chosen out of the pen, placing them into position on the rope, shuffling them like a deck of cards, muttering to himself.

  John was the last to be placed, right at the front, facing Brandt.

  ‘I knew you’d have wanted to be here, mio Capitane,’ said Dan.

  John gave a swift nod. Brandt was smirking over at him.

  ‘I’ll hold us steady, mio Capitane.’ Dan clasped John on the shoulder. ‘You at the front, me at the back. We’ll show them. We’ll show the bastards all right.’

  Dan trotted back down the line, and once there wrapped the end of the rope three times around his body before taking up his place at the rear. He sent up a loud whistle to say he was ready.

  The crowd had come to buzzing, chattering life. Dr Fuller waddled his horse into the middle of the field and held up a hand for silence. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he shouted, ‘on my whistle, the men will commence pulling.’

  She was watching. He felt the knowledge of it lift his skin.

  A memory filled him – playing hurley, or pitching on the crossroads, the women sitting in the fields beside the road, wrapped in their shawls, their red petticoats bright against the green grass, their high chatter like the sound of small birds. Every young man growing a little taller in the gaze of them.

  A different sort of heat rose in him as the sinews of hemp grew taut in his hands.

  Fuller stepped up to the middle of the rope. His makeup had melted and his mouth was an ugly, smeared gash. ‘The team who are the first to pull the first man from the other team, over this line,’ he bent to the ground, drawing a bright chalk mark on the browned grass, ‘will be declared the winner. Are you ready, men?’

  Brandt nodded. John nodded. Fuller blew his whistle and stepped away. Immediately, John felt the pull from the other side. He leant backwards, as though into a strong wind.

  ‘Allez, chavos!’ Dan’s voice came from the back of the line, tight with the pull.

  He dug his heels into the parched earth, the rope’s dry fibres twisting in his hands. His feet stumbled a little, and he was at such a low angle that for an awful second he feared he would fall, but he found his balance and stayed upright. His palms pricked then burnt. Sweat fell from his forehead, stinging and blinding him. He was leaning far, far back now. A stillness came over the pullers, the stillness of great effort, evenly matched. A stillness over the silent, watching crowd. The air taut now too. Little give on either side. Nothing in it.

  ‘Allez, chavos!’ A roar from Dan Riley ripped into the air. ‘Pull now! Pull!’

  John grunted with effort, felt the rope move towards him, a little, a little further. Brandt’s smile was gone, his face was distorted with the pull, and John had him; he began to walk backwards, slowly, slowly backwards, and he was groaning, all of them were, lowing like cattle with the effort of it, and his forearms were bursting, but he felt the strength of the men behind him, felt Dan, although he could not see him, holding the back steady, and Brandt was coming closer to the line, grimacing, cursing with each step, a filthy black fish flapping its last, ready to be caught.

  Something to laugh at.

  Brandt was almost up to the white chalk line, and his face was the face of a man who had lost, but then there was a great shrill whistle from Fuller, and in the surprise John felt the rope yank from his hands, watched helplessly as it twitched and loosened like a living thing, and his hands were empty, and he was on the ground.

  He scrambled to his feet. Brandt was moving towards the doctor, who had his hands over his head as though to shield himself from a blow. Then, after another quick blast from Fuller’s whistle, the doctor stretched his arm out towards the attendant’s team. ‘The staff are the winners!’

  A great bellow came from the back of the line, and Dan barrelled past John, heading straight for Brandt.

  John bent, gathering his breath. He cast his eyes towards the women, saw with a start that Ella had moved – that somehow, in the commotion, she had managed to break free of the women’s lines and was waiting by a stand of high fir trees curving close to where he stood. She was alone, not twenty feet from him. As he watched, she disappeared into the trees. His heart battered his chest. He turned from the mayhem, slowly at first, then covering the distance in great, gathering strides.

  ‘Mulligan!’ A shout came from behind him. ‘Stop! Stop now!’

  He ignored the voice, carrying on until a blow halted him, clumsy and splayed across his shoulders.

  ‘Where do you think you are going?’

  He turned, breathing hard. It was Fuller. The doctor was holding his hand to his chest as though it were painful, as though he himself was surprised by what he had done. ‘Where do you think you are going?’ The man’s voice was shrill. A vein pounded at his neck.

  John stared at him. At his ridiculous make-up, half smudged, his horse’s
head, heat sagged, drooping off to one side.

  ‘I need a piss,’ he said, and his voice was low and hoarse.

  Fuller’s eyes bulged. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I need a piss.’ John gestured with his arm towards the clump of trees. ‘Would you want me to do it here on the grass instead?’

  ‘No,’ Fuller barked, his neck crimson. ‘No, I most certainly would not.’

  John reached up and wiped his forehead with his cuff. Over by the tug of war, the patients were being rounded up by the attendants. Dan was still shouting. Brandt had his arm twisted up behind him. The afternoon was over. The bastards had cheated and won. Just as they would always cheat and win. The game was rigged from the first.

  He glanced over at the trees but could no longer see her. His mouth felt sour, as though the bitter dregs of something were held there. He swallowed. He and Fuller seemed to be alone in the middle of this heat-scoured field. A strangeness hovering in the air between them. He recognized it, though he could not name it. ‘D’ye know what?’ John fumbled with his trousers. ‘It’s a fair way to those trees. I think I’ll do it here after all.’

  He heard the shocked intake of the man’s breath. ‘Mulligan—’

  But his piss cut the man off, ripping on to the thirsty ground, arcing and pooling between their feet.

  ‘Mulligan! I will not allow this. Mr Mulligan! It is CORONATION DAY!’

  ‘This is what I think of your rules.’ John was enjoying it now. ‘This is what I think of your coronation. And this is what I think of your fucking king.’ Hot piss splashed over the doctor’s boots.

  Fuller stared down, panting, but still he did not move. It was as though some enchantment had rooted him to the spot.

  When John had finished, he took his time, shaking himself off, tucking himself back in. There had been a decent amount. He had needed it after all.

  Charles

  HE COULD NOT think of it, and yet he could think of little else. It colonized his thoughts. Had anyone else seen? He didn’t think so, but it was impossible to tell.

  Following the Sports Day there was to be a Coronation Tea, and Charles’s plan had been to debut ‘Alexander’ while the patients were eating; there was a last rehearsal scheduled for three o’clock. But as soon as he entered the room Charles saw that the meeting was ill judged: half of the players were missing, and those that were there were sweaty and hectic from their exertions. Goffin arrived still wearing his athletics gear – his great thighs on flagrant display.

  Trying to keep the atmosphere light, trying to quash the sight that threatened to insert itself continually in front of his eyes, Charles smiled as he brought out the music and handed it around. ‘Just the thing for this sort of weather!’ he said. ‘They say the negroes play it best,’ he attempted an American accent, ‘down in New Orleans!’

  There was a strange, strained silence at this last, until Goffin, seated to Charles’s left, his trumpet resting against one of those thighs, snickered, ‘Yes, well, it helps if you’re a nigger, I suppose.’

  Charles felt his skin flare, and there were several (perhaps more than several if he was honest) answering snickers from the rest of the company. He tried a laugh to show he had a sense of humour too, but it sounded hollow and peevish.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, after the band had stumbled once through the piece, ‘I’m not feeling at all well. I’ve a headache from the heat. All this syncopation is making me a little queasy. I think it might be better to stick with something simple. The Trio from Pomp and Circumstance will do.’

  And so it had been. A steady two-four time signature. Elgar for the Coronation Tea.

  Later, when the patients had been put to bed, the staff gathered in their quarters, a few bottles of ale were opened and the new King and Queen were toasted once more. It was nine o’clock and bright as noon outside. The grey of the day had given way to a fine evening, and a jostling little group of the younger men had formed, readying themselves to walk out across the fields to the pub in Sharston village.

  ‘Fuller! Hey, Fuller!’

  Charles looked up.

  ‘Are you coming with us then?’

  It was Goffin, washed now and changed from his sports kit into a pale cotton suit. A high colour to his cheeks, grinning as though nothing untoward had occurred, giving off the air that young men do when they have tasted alcohol and know there is more to come. Charles felt his cheeks sting all over again. He gave a wave. ‘Thank you. I have some work to do.’

  He picked up his Times and turned to the back pages, where the paper had recently begun to run a column entitled ‘Deaths by Heat’.

  Where was the shy young man who had been so happy to be included in the band? Gone. Gone in the heat of athletic triumph and a couple of ales. And really, thought Charles, it was disputable whether the men deserved their victory, whether they had won after all. He supposed it was his fault if there had been an injustice. The patients had been winning, but he had blown his whistle too soon. Confusion had reigned. Perhaps he should have been tougher, rather than declaring the victory for the staff. But tensions were high, and Brandt was a threatening fellow at best. It had seemed the orderly, sensible thing to do.

  He looked up and saw Goffin standing before him, his face a little blurry with drink and heat. ‘You sure?’ He waved a bottle of ale in Charles’s face.

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I have, as I said, some work to do.’ Charles felt brittle suddenly, as though he might crack.

  ‘Ahh, but …’ Goffin looked a little unsteady on his feet. ‘Seems a shame. Shaaame to be working on an evening like this.’ He waved a hand towards the windows.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Charles said. ‘There we are.’

  As he mounted the stairs to his room, he could hear the young men singing:

  It was a lover and his lass,

  With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

  That o’er the green corn field did pass …

  Inside his quarters the sun still blared through the window, relentless. Outside, it fell on the scorched grass. It was an official heatwave now, twenty days straight without proper rain (the ragged sprinkling of that morning could hardly be counted). He longed for darkness, for shadow. He reached up, prodding uselessly at his window, even though he knew it would not open far.

  He could see Goffin and the clutch of men below, pushing and ragging each other as they headed out over the grounds. A couple of them had obviously raided the hay stores and fashioned rude torches, which were burning brightly as they walked, casting long dancing shadows behind them. Charles flinched at the sight; it looked as though giants were abroad.

  Midsummer Night, but he did not feel any joy – everything felt upside down. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, saw that despite a hurried washing earlier in the day vestiges of his clown make-up still clung to his skin. He bent to his basin and scrubbed until the stains were gone and his face was raw, then closed the curtains a little way, unthreaded his laces and sat on the edge of his bed. He pulled The Times listlessly towards him, tugging at his collar as he read that evening’s offering in ‘Deaths by Heat’: a young couple whose motor car had skidded on melted tarmac and ended their days impaled on railings. He was glad he had not been the doctor at that particular scene. He leafed through the paper for some light relief but found none: industrial unrest was growing, coal heavers and dockers were on strike. Seamen had struck again to join them. Home Secretary Churchill would have his hands full.

  Where was Churchill then, right at this moment? Not stuck in a tiny room, alone and musing. He would be out. At his club perhaps, relaxing after the exertions of the day, surrounded by the great and the good, cigar in one hand, and in the other a glass of champagne, or hock, or something that Charles had never heard of but Churchill knew intimately, a French white, crisp and clean, to wash away the mugginess of the day. He would be taking the bottle himself, topping up his companions’ glasses. Holding forth. Toasting the King.

  And the others, in the pu
b in Sharston? Their laughing faces, fists clinking tankards of frothing ale. He should have gone, it was Midsummer Night after all, a time to be abroad. It would have been the best thing to do. Show there were no hard feelings. Make sure they did not think him a prig. But the day had stripped him somehow.

  It helps if you’re a nigger, I suppose. He drew Goffin’s comment forth like a splinter from beneath his skin.

  What did he mean? Did he mean Charles was a Negro for wanting to listen to the music and to play it?

  Goffin is right. I should never have done it. Never have gone to Spence’s and taken this initiative. To like such music is evidence of weakness, of desire for regression to the state of an ape.

  This may be true, but then, what of the young man in Spence’s? He loves the music, and he is as far from a Negro as it is possible to be.

  I myself couldn’t appear less like a Negro. Except for the red parts, my reflection grows more pasty every day.

  The thing he wished, most fervently of all, was to see the young man in Spence’s again, to step into the cool of the shop, feel his propinquity, catch his oxygenated scent. The easy way he played. His lightness. What wouldn’t he give for a draught of that lightness now?

  Had they wanted him to go with them, those men at the pub, or were they simply being nice? Or worse – had they wished to humiliate him further? And why could he not tell the difference?

  And Mulligan. Mulligan. After all he had done for him: the music, the dances, the moving him to work in the fields; all the hope he had placed in his recovery.

  Good God.

  Charles groaned. Finally, he gave way to it. The memory. The sight of the Irishman’s organ: red-tipped, half engorged, the pale arc of liquid soaking his boots. He peered down at them now. He had rinsed them thoroughly; there was no sign of the man’s depredations there, but the stain was not to the leather. It had been a Saturnal, out there on the cricket field. Not just Mulligan, but Riley too, wearing that ludicrous green crown, ordering his troops like the Lord of Misrule. Anger welled within him and he understood: that was why he had blown his whistle. Mulligan’s strength, the puckish grin on Riley’s face – they should not be allowed.